


trial & error

by estora



Series: i have loved you so long [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Matchmaking, Sex, Trash Robot Children, Two Shot, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estora/pseuds/estora
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Lieutenant in possession of a trash robot son must be in want of a 50-year-old Jewish FBI agent.Or; Connor is a rude, nosy asshole and repeatedly tries to set Hank up on a date. Hank refuses to admit that Connor is right.Set between Chapter 12 and Chapter 13 ofi have loved you so long.





	1. One | Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY I LIED it's actually a two-shot. Enjoy!

_5 JUNE 2039, 14:31_

Hank isn’t sure what makes him pick up his phone when it buzzes. It buzzes a lot these days, now that he turns up to work sober more often than not – Fowler seemed to take that as an indication of interest in actually working before midday on Hank’s part, rather than a side-effect of Connor being irritating until Hank drove them to the station just so he would  _stop being so fucking judgemental_  – so Hank had taken to ignoring the phone for as long as possible.

This afternoon, he picks it up on instinct.

_(2:31 PM) **Shapiro, Anne** **:** thx i’ll b thr. c u 2nite_

A thumbs-up emoji follows it.

Hank squints. He scrolls up to see what it was in response to. Frowns. Reads it again.

Either he was extremely drunk when he’d sent the original message and now has no memory of it (unlikely: the punctuation and grammar is too perfect for him to have ever written anything like it), or someone (Prime Suspect: Connor) hacked it. Prime Suspect is sitting at the dining table reading a book, doing a remarkable impression of an innocent person minding their own business.

Hank wanders over. “ _Just checking in to see how you’re going,_ ” he reads out loud _._ “ _Also, wondering if you’d be interested in joining me on Sunday evening while Connor has some friends over._ ”

“That was very thoughtful of you, Lieutenant,” Connor replies, not even looking up. “I’m certain Agent Shapiro will appreciate the gesture.”

Hank shoves his phone into his back pocket and points at Connor. “Damn it, Connor, that didn’t even sound like me!” he snaps. “How many times have I told you not to hack my phone?”

“Technically, I didn’t hack it.”

“ _Twice_. I’ve told you  _twice_.”

“I didn’t hack it,” Connor insists. “Your password is stuck on the fridge.”

That’s not the point. “Stop fucking touching my phone. Got it?”

“Got it,” Connor lies.

Hank sighs. “What’s this about you having friends over?” he asks tiredly. Now Connor cleaning the house and setting up  _Mario Kart Deluxe_ on the PS8 makes sense.

“I’ve invited several acquaintances over for an evening away from New Jericho. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Y’know, it’s polite to ask me first if I’m okay with it. Maybe I have plans.”

Connor  _looks_  at him. “Hank, I have been living with you for more than six months. You don’t have plans.”

Rude. “Okay, smartass,” Hank says. “Is your boyfriend coming?”

Aha, finally a reaction. Connor’s LED spins yellow. “He’s – not my boyfriend, Hank,” he replies haltingly, which really, is all Hank needs to know because he didn’t even have to drop Markus’s name for Connor to know exactly who was being talked about. “We don’t have that sort of relationship.”

Oh, bullshit; Connor and Markus only look at each other like the sun shines out of their perfectly constructed plastic anuses. Seems like humans don’t have exclusive rights to denial. “Right.”

“And even if we did –” Connor hesitates. “I don’t believe it would be appropriate, given my friendship with North.”

That’s an excuse and they both know it, but Hank isn’t in the mood to fight Connor about this because it’ll just give Connor ammunition to annoy  _Hank_  about dating. 

“You’re friends with North?” Hank asks instead, dubious.

Connor frowns, tilting his head to the side. “Did you not think I was?”

Hank’s not entirely sure  _North_ thinks she’s friends with Connor, let alone anyone bar Markus, but heck, he doesn’t want to be the one to disillusion the kid. Maybe they are friends. Maybe North isn’t the sentient equivalent of pepper spray. Maybe Hank isn't a functioning alcoholic. “No, sure, I mean, I guess,” Hank says. “It’s just… she’s a bit scary, isn’t she?”

“I think she’s remarkable.”

All right, that’s adorable. Hank issues a sigh of concession. Of course he’s fine with Connor having friends over,  _glad_  even, that the weird, socially awkward half-revered, half-reviled reformed Deviant Hunter has people who like him enough to want to spend time with him. “Fine, fine. What time are they coming? I’m not changing.”

The LED goes yellow again. Hank often wonders why Connor keeps it – most if not all other androids have pried theirs out of their heads – but he’s glad it’s still there sometimes, otherwise he’d never know how Connor feels about anything. “Hank, you can’t wear that.”

Hank glances down at himself. “What’s wrong with it?”

“That shirt is hideous, for starters.” Connor sniffs. “Cologne wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

Hank has met a lot of rude people in his life. Connor is definitely in the top five and he’s close to beating out Reed. It’s not a recent, deviant-Connor thing, either; Connor has  _always_  been rude, right from the moment they met when Connor spilled Hank’s drink on the floor, like an asshole. Did CyberLife program him to be an asshole? Or was he always a deviant and  _always_  an asshole? Hank  _likes_  his blue Hawaiian shirt; Connor’s never sassed it before, either, which means he’s either been being polite (unlikely) or he’s concerned about Hank’s appearance because of a one FBI Special Agent Anne Shapiro who’ll be here this evening.

That’s just too fucking bad for Connor. Hank has no interest in or reason to put on a show for Shapiro; he can’t imagine she’s exactly on the prowl, either, after everything that went down with Cudmore not two weeks ago. 

“Connor,” Hank says in the tone he’s worked out will make Connor stop, “enough. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. It’s cute, in a – really fucking creepy way. But stop it.”

Besides. If she – hypothetically speaking, anyway, and this applies to any potential future partner – doesn’t like his fashion, his personality, his drinki—okay, no, not the drinking, he wouldn’t want anyone to like that, but all the rest of it, then it’s just not going to work out. He’s not changing for anyone. Including Shapiro.

Connor looks like someone has kicked Sumo, but that’s Connor’s problem, not Hank’s. He wants to be alive – this is part of living. Things can’t always be the way Connor wants them to be and – ah, fuck, he’s doing the eye thing, the expression that makes women coo and grown men weep and now Hank feels  _guilty_.

“ _Fine,”_  Hank snaps, “I’ll put deodorant on. But nothing else!”

Connor beams; Hank storms off towards his bathroom with a horrible feeling that that had been Connor’s plan all along. 

Asshole.

* * *

_18:32_

The New Jericho crew, bar North, arrive at precisely 6:30pm; Simon and Josh have brought Hank a box of chocolates (“I understand this is a traditional gift to offer the host,” Josh explains; Hank likes him the best, absolutely  _not_  sorry Connor,  _never_  was the last time Connor brought him chocolates). Markus brings some packets of Thirium as snacks for the androids and Hank freaks himself out about it when he realises it’s the equivalent of humans bringing bags of blood to a gathering. Connor and Markus do that thing that they always do, where they stand too close to each other, making eye contact like they’re each other’s mirror images and forget everyone else exists.

There’s something kind of poetic about it: the Revolutionary and the Deviant Hunter, the Caretaker and the Detective. Good thing they’re  _just friends_. Thank fuck North and Shapiro arrive shortly afterwards, though Hank’s relief at not having to watch Markus and Connor dance around each other is replace by irritation when Connor starts to dance around Hank and Shapiro instead. Hank takes her coat to hang it on the wall, noting that her bruises and cuts are almost completely healed.

“Can I get you some sparkling water, Agent Shapiro?” Connor offers, leading her through to the kitchen.

Sparkling water? Gross. Somehow it’s not even a surprise; of course Connor would have stalked her and found out what she likes to drink, though no accounting for taste. Hank interrupts before one or both of them are embarrassed. “Uh, Connor, I don’t think we have –”

“We do,” Connor replies. “You bought some this morning.”

Hank most certainly did not, but lo and behold, a bottle of San Pellegrino emerges from the fridge, and Hank has an awful feeling that he’s going to find the charge on his credit card tonight,  _thanks Connor_.

“My mistake,” he says, shooting Connor a filthy glare. “Apparently I did.”

Connor offers him a mild smile as he pours Shapiro a glass. “Hank, why don’t you show Agent Shapiro your book collection?”

Hank likes that he’s not even trying to be subtle about it. 

“Sure,” Hank agrees, gesturing towards the study. Shapiro accepts the glass from Connor with a thanks and sips her revolting water, looking amused, and shrugs. It’ll get them away from Connor, if nothing else, and Hank really has no interest in joining the New Jericho crew in the living room while they play Mario Kart, of  _all things_. It's weird to think of the androids as holding the controllers. Technology using technology. Can't they just synch with the console and play it with their minds? What’s even the point if they can’t? Robots are fucking wild. 

No sooner than he’s led Shapiro to the study, the door closes behind them; Connor, obviously, followed them down the hall. It’s a fucking wonder he hadn’t thrown a box of condoms in after them.

Hank rubs his forehead. “I am,” he says, “so fucking sorry.”

Shapiro is examining his bookshelf – his collection of Brandon Sanderson novels. “What for?” 

“You, uh, you know he’s trying to set us up.”

Shapiro turns that mildly unimpressed gaze upon him. “Yeah,” she says, “I do.”

Hank grimaces. “He means well. He thinks we have… stuff… in common.”

“Like?”

Jesus, she’s not going to make him say it, is she? Surely she  _knows_. Their kids’ names even started with the same letter, how fucked up is that? “Oh, you know…” Hank says, now rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s agitated, nervous, and struggling to think of something to say other than  _dead children_. “I work in law enforcement. You work in law enforcement. We’re both in our fifties.”

“Wow, we’re soulmates,” Shapiro drawls.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before either.”

That elicits a wry smile from her.

Hank snorts and shakes his head. “Just – ignore him. You don’t have to worry.”

He realises a moment too late she might take that a way he hadn’t intended – as if he’s telling her not to worry because he’s not interested, which is, fuck, it’s not true, he  _is_ , but he  _wouldn’t_  have been if fucking Connor hadn’t put the idea in his head. He just doesn’t want her to worry about unwanted advances from a middle-aged, alcoholic loser with a beer gut; Connor’s  _list of parameters_  is all good and well on  _Hank’s_  side but obviously it had not occurred to the sentient supercomputer to even consider  _Shapiro’s_ parameters. Like. Look at him, he thinks; there’s nothing here for her to even give a second glance to. For all he knows, he might not even have the right parts for her.

It’s not that Hank wants to stereotype, but she  _is_  butch, what with the muscles, the short hair, the complete disregard for societal pressures of traditional beauty standards. And yeah, he’s into her, like,  _entire_  aesthetic, sure, but while it’s pretty fucking hypocritical of him to stereotype given his own swinging sexual preferences, he’s fairly sure he’s not going to be Shapiro’s type no matter which way anyone looks at it. And even if she  _is_  into men, a woman like her would have standards that Hank probably doesn’t even remotely meet – 

“I wasn’t,” Shapiro says. “No offense, Anderson, but I’m just not looking for anything. And even if I was –”

“I’d hardly be your first pick,” he finishes. “No offence taken.”

She shakes her head. “You sell yourself short. No, I was going to say that even if I was, there needs to be more in common than dead kids. That’s barely even enough of a reason for us to be friends.”

Ah, shit. “You, uh… heard that, huh.”

“No, North told me. She was eavesdropping. Androids have ridiculously good hearing.” Shapiro pauses, then glances at the door and raises her voice. “Don’t you, Connor?”

There’s a beat of silence, then the distinct sound of a shuffling behind the door.

“It’s kind of cute,” Shapiro concedes after a beat.

“It’s kind of weird,” Hank corrects. 

Then – silence draws out. Awkward silence. 

Fuck. 

“So,” Hank says.

“So.”

God, this is awful. He hasn’t done this in – a long time, whatever ‘this’ is. Flirting? Courting?  _God Hank_ ,  _no_ , not that, don’t fucking call it that, this wasn’t even his stupid, ill-informed, ill-advised idea in the first place. He’s not falling into this trap. He and Shapiro, they’re just – acquaintances. He can make this work so they can get through the evening. They just need to find something in common.  _Other_  than age, career and deceased children. The last thing he wants to do is talk about Cole. The last thing she probably wants to do is talk about Cassandra.

“Music?” Hank suggests.

“Sure. What kind?”

“I mostly have heavy metal.”

“Ah,” Shapiro says, unimpressed. “I prefer pop and disco.”

Great, just his fucking luck to get stuck with the most boring person in Illinois who also happens to be the exact kind of woman he’d thank for punching him in the face. “Can I…” he says, “get you a beer?”

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

At all? Not even a little bit? This is going to be the shortest-lived failed set-up he’s ever experienced, and that’s saying something. He’s going to kill Connor. “You’re just going to have possessed water the whole night?”

Her eyebrows arch upwards. “You got something against sparkling water?”

“It’s like drinking tv static. The name is aesthetic but the taste is betrayal.”

“Okay, you know what, Anderson, I came out to have a good time –”

Hank laughs.

Shapiro returns with a small smile, though her expression turns distant. “Angry water,” she finally concedes. “It’s an acquired taste. You should give it a chance.”

Connor’s voice, pitching high from the living room, interrupts Hank before he can tell her that he’ll give bee water a chance when hell freezes over.

“ _North, stop it, let go!”_

_“Not until you apologise!”_

Shapiro and Hank glance at each other. She’s closest to the door; she opens it, pokes her head out, then comes back in with a sigh.

“What’s going on?” Hank says, feeling tired. 

Shapiro closes the door. “North is holding Connor in a headlock.”

Knowing Connor as he does, he’s almost certain that Connor did something to deserve it – probably got pissy that North beat him at the Rainbow level and called her a cheat, he’s petty and arrogant like that because he’s a  _prototype_ , he should be the best at  _everything_. Like, for fuck’s sake Connor, make up your mind, do you want to be a person or do you want to be proud of being the most special android to ever exist? Anyway, Hank has seen him take out a SWAT team; North is formidable but he’s only in a headlock because he wants to be in one.

“I love that you didn’t tell North to let him go,” Hank comments.

That makes her laugh. It’s a nice laugh – sort of husky, tired, a laugh that speaks to years of not giving a fuck and a tentative embrace of the idea of living again, a feeling he knows all too well. “North likes Connor. She won’t hurt him.”

So they really  _are_ friends. That’s – good.  _Really_ good. Hank won’t lie; he worries about Connor sometimes. 

He chuckles now that the tension is broken. “Look,” he says, “the way I see it, you can either sit in the corner and read a  _National Geographic_  all evening, or we can go back out there and join the robot party, break up the fight and eat some food while we find some common ground.”

Shapiro offers him that tired half smile and raises her glass of tv static water. “After you.” 

They break up the fight; it wasn’t serious and Simon and Josh hug Connor afterwards (while laughing), and Connor pouts for half an hour like the sore loser that he is.

Hank and Shapiro start with music. Hank suggests  _Knights of the Black Death_. She responds with Sia, so they’re not off to a great start. Shapiro accuses him of being tone deaf with bad taste; Hank calls her a walking 1980s aerobics class, which she doesn’t deny. After a painful amount of trial and error – “ _Cher?_  I hate to break this to you, Shapiro, but I just don’t see us working out,” – they settle on P!nk.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Hank says later into the evening after they’ve talked work, pain-in-the-ass colleagues, and punching superior officers;  _So What_  is playing in the background while the androids thrash each other at  _Mario Kart_. He’s not drunk – it’ll take more than three beers to get him anywhere near that stage – but he’s on his way and he can feel his tongue loosening, his words slightly dragging. “Humans. Remember back on that trash-hole website, tumble or rumbler or whatever –”

“Oh, don’t even pretend you don’t know what it was called,” Shapiro says.

…Okay fine, she’s got him there. “Bet you had some fuckin’ fitness aesthetic blog.”

Shapiro sips her possessed water, neither confirming nor denying. “You were saying?”

Oh. Right. “Back on the internet when we were dealing with the snowflakes –” (Reed’s generation, and  _boy_ does it fucking show) “– everyone was like... we ‘pack bond’ with everything. Rocks. Animals. Even fuckin’ roombas. So why not androids? Why did no one look an android and get all warm ‘n fuzzy with it?”

Shapiro considers this for a moment. “Did you pack-bond with Clippy?”

_Hi, my name is Connor, the android sent by_ _CyberLife_ _! Looks like you’re trying to catch a deviant. Want some help?_

Hank chokes on the last mouthful of his beer. “ _FUCK._ ”

Shapiro throws her head back and laughs. 

He wants to drink more (does he? He doesn’t really want to, he’s having a good time, it’s more habit than anything at this stage) but he also doesn’t want Shapiro to see him  _drunk_. Not yet. Not that there’s a  _yet_ , and if there is (which there won’t be) he doesn’t want this to be her first impression of his issues. Not that she’s exactly all there herself – he was there the night of the raids, he heard what she said and he knows what she did to Cudmore (official report: self-inflicted/suicide). He doesn’t reach for a fourth beer, but he does take her back to the study to show her his books (not a euphemism; she’d seemed interested before). He’s inebriated enough to get a bit of a blood rush to the head and he sways.

She’s not to know of course that he wasn’t going to fall, but her hand closes around his arm anyway and steadies him by backing him up against the wall. He hits it with a little more force than expected and issues a soft grunt; Shapiro stands close to him, peering slightly up – she's only a touch shorter than him, which is weird to realise, he’d just assumed she was taller because she’s so commanding in everything she does. This proximity, he can see her stern features up close, feel the strength of her grip around his arm, she could probably throw him over her shoulder and, oh  _fuck_ , Connor was right all along, that little fucking –

“Sorry,” Shapiro murmurs.

Hank's throat is tight. “Don’t be.”

Her eyes are on his face; her gaze flicks down to his mouth, his chest, his beer gut, then back up, and her expression (reserved, curious) remains the same. He’s too old to blush but, shit, she’s worked it out. She releases his arm, saying nothing. They go and see the books; Shapiro expresses an interest in a crime novel and Hank tells her she can borrow it, but now things are weird.

Around 11pm the androids are ready to go back to New Jericho. North waits for Shapiro in her car, increasingly impatient.

“This was fun, Anderson,” Shapiro says. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s... been a while since I’ve gone out.”

He doesn’t doubt it. “Thanks for coming,” Hank replies. “Though if I’m being honest –”

“Connor hacked your phone and you had no idea he invited me.”

He laughs. “Technically, he didn’t hack it, but yeah. Either way – I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” She glances over her shoulder to the car. North frowns at her, urging her to hurry up; she’s probably had enough social interaction to last her a week. She’s only been in there for two minutes while Shapiro says her goodbyes and she looks ready to sit on the horn. Shapiro hides a smile and looks back at Hank. “Look. How about dinner, next Friday? I’ll pick you up from the precinct at six.”

It takes a few moments for what she’s said to register. Hank’s eyebrows rise. He folds his arm over his chest and leans against the doorframe. “Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Shapiro?”

“Hank, we’re fifty. I’m asking you if you want to get dinner and see if by the end of the night we like each other enough to have sex.”

...Well then. 

“I thought you weren’t looking for anything,” Hank says. That’s all he’s really able to articulate; his brain is stuck on the  _sex_  part. She is into guys? She’s legit considering having sex with  _him?_  Is  _she_  drunk? Connor must’ve fucked up at the shops and gotten her vodka instead.

“I wasn’t,” Shapiro says. She doesn’t  _sound_  drunk. “I’m  _not_. But you make me laugh and… I don’t know, Hank. I’m old and tired and I had fun with you tonight. It’s been a fucking long time since I’ve been able to say that.”

Yeah, well, him too. North doesn’t count; neither does Connor for him, because it’s – different. The implications, the feelings, it’s all different.

And, Christ, he’s not ready for this. At all. She can’t possibly be either. 

But it’s not like either of them are getting any younger, any less traumatised and fucked up.

“Six o’clock, Friday,” Hank agrees before he loses his nerve. “Though I should warn you, my wardrobe leaves a bit to be desired. Nowhere fancy.”

“Oh, please. I haven’t worn a skirt or dress in about fifteen years.” She offers him that wry, tired smile. “Besides, I like your ugly shirt. Steakhouse?”

Oh thank God, he thought for a moment she was going to drag him to a vegan restaurant, she comes across like that kind of person. They don’t kiss cheeks or do the awkward shake-hands-or-hug dance, but only because North smacks the horn. Shapiro nods at him and he nods back, waves goodbye to North (she rolls her eyes in response) and closes the door behind him when he’s back inside so he can release a shaky exhale.

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Connor is there. The smug silence is loud enough. “Shut the fuck up, Connor,” Hank sighs.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“What part of shut up don’t you understand?” Hank snaps, storming off to his room. “Go lick some dirt or something.”

He’s itching for an excuse to shove another bar of soap in the boy’s mouth.Connor just smirks as Hank passes.

_Asshole._


	2. Two | Out Of Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date, and the awkward night. It's fine; they're both adults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the E rating! I earn it this chapter with the least sexy sex scene you've probably ever read in your lives.

_17 JUNE 2039, 17:45_

“Anderson, I want you to make sure the officers are in place for the press conference at New Jericho in case the crowd gets ugly – on _either_ side. We don’t know when the announcement will be but I want your plan on my desk by Tuesday.”

Turns out, Hank thinks, that Fowler actually expects him to do work when he shows up to the precinct not looking like he’s crawled out of a dumpster. It’s amazing what effect a little personal grooming has on others, whether or not they realise it. When Hank was at his lowest, he came in to the office more often than not stinking of booze and cigarettes, with greasy, unkempt hair and bad breath. He might as well have been homeless; Fowler took him to task a few times and Reed got nasty then started ignoring him until Connor came along, but everyone else gave Hank a wide berth as if he had Ebola or some shit like that.

He doesn’t blame him. Hell, _he’d_ avoid him, if he could.

Almost did.

… _Jesus Christ_.

He swallows the shame. Because it’s not like he’s – _fixed_. There’s no cure for the reasons he played Russian Roulette.

Connor helps. But… Jesus. He’s fucked up. And here he is today, showered, groomed, wearing _cologne_ , as if he’s normal, as if he’s like any other fucker in this office. And people are treating him like he’s any other fucker – saying hi, and he says hi back, not going quiet when he enters the break room for a coffee like he’s he poor asshole whose kid died and is instead a fellow officer, a Lieutenant who earns a nod of respect instead of a sneer of disgust. Even Reed is looking at him strangely while Fowler talks at them, like he’s not too sure what Hank’s deal is today.

“Reed, you’ll be leading the units so I expect you and Anderson to work together on this one – and so help me God if I hear _one_ word of complaint out of your mouth about this assignment, my boot will go so far up your ass you’ll taste it. Got it?”

 Reed lifts his hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“ _Got it?_ ”

“I didn’t say anything! Anderson’s the one you should –”

“Anderson has a reprimand file fatter than your ego. If he doesn’t know by now, he never will.”

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, Fowler,” Hank drawls. “I’ll have it done by Tuesday.” He glances at Reed. He can’t help it; it’s too fucking easy to rile the asshole up. “Assuming Reed puts his dick away, of course.”

“All right, you know what, Anderson –”

“Take the pissing contest outside,” Fowler snaps. “Reed, before you go, I’ve got a note here from New Jericho. A YK400 android has been asking after you – the one you saved during the raid, with the cracked LED and a scar on her face?”

“Oh,” Reed says. “Essie.”

Hank squints at him. “Essie?” he repeats, dubious.

“Her serial number starts with 35513.”

“You fuckin’ loser,” Hank drawls.

Reed’s face colours immediately. “What?” he snaps. “She didn’t have a name! Shut the fuck up, Anderson!”

“Jesus Christ, shut up, Reed,” Fowler sighs. “Get the fuck out of my office, both of you.”

“Why’s she asking after you?” Hank asks once Fowler’s glass door closes behind them. “Most of the girls pulled out of there are fucking terrified of men.”

Reed shifts uncomfortably, offering Hank a jerky, embarrassed shrug, one hand reaching up to cover his nose for a moment. “She saw my scar when I freed her and – I dunno. She got clingy. Wouldn’t let go of my leg.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t kick her in the face.”

“Fuck off. I’ll kick Connor in the face any day –” or worse, Hank thinks, but Connor gives as good as he gets; Reed has been watching himself ever since Connor yeeted a cup of coffee at his face (“Get me a coffee, dipshit!” “ _HERE YOU ARE, DETECTIVE!_ ”) “– but I don’t go around booting kids, even if they’re made of plastic.”

“That’s cute, Reed.”

“It’s not cute. I wish I had. She imprinted on me like a baby duckling. It’s _weird_.”

“You gonna visit her?”

“No, Anderson, I’m not gonna visit the creepy robot child!” Reed snaps, shoving past Hank, but he stops when he notices the woman sitting on the edge of Hank’s desk, her long, strong legs crossed and her expression mild. “Huh. I didn't know we were expecting the FBI.”

Hank meets Shapiro’s eyes across the bullpen. “We’re not,” he says. “She’s here for me.”

“For _you_?”

“Yep.”

Reed looks at him again – his unwrinkled shirt, his clean pants, his hair which is actually combed for the first time in four years, the fact that he smells like cologne instead of booze – and his eyebrows shoot up. “Holy _shit_ , Anderson.”

Holy shit is right.

Hank has _no_ fucking idea what he’s doing.

* * *

_18:31_

Hank has no fucking idea what he’s doing, which suits Shapiro just fine; she always did prefer being in charge. Dating – as long as it’s been – is no different. She drives them to the bistro. The reservation is under her name. She chooses the wine, though debates first on whether or not that’s a good idea – she’s not ignorant about Hank’s issues, and she hasn’t had alcohol in more than ten years. But they both order porterhouse steaks with mushroom sauce and it’s hard to get properly drunk on a couple of glasses of red; she’ll take her chances and hope that she doesn’t get sloshed on a single glass, and that he isn’t sneaking in extra booze.

“Good choice,” Hank compliments, glancing around the steakhouse once the waiter has left with their order.

He sounds surprised. “You sound surprised,” Shapiro says.

Hank coughs. “Uh, a little, I’ll admit.”

Shapiro hides a smile, glancing down at the menu. “You thought I was a butch vegan lesbian, didn’t you.”

Hank’s half a second of hesitation tells her that that’s exactly what he’d thought she was. She’s hardly one to judge; she tells him that she thought he was a crazy homeless bum with a gun squatting in the abandoned, run-down building. He laughs and replies that she wasn’t too far off.

It’s polite during dates to avoid talking about three things: politics, religion and money, but she and Hank are trash millennials even at the ages of fifty and fifty-three respectively; they talk about all three. President Warren – what the fuck? What the ever-living fuck, America, did you learn _nothing_ after 2016. _Idiots_. Religion: he enquires about her (admitting to atheism) and she gives a lesson on Judaism 101. Money comes up when the bill comes; she’s determined to pay because she asked him out, he wants to pay because he’s old fashioned like that, so they decide to split the bill because it turns out neither of them are exactly hurting for money – she still has a lot of her parents’ inheritance left, and Hank’s ex-wife didn’t run him dry after their divorce.

She drives them back to his house. He invites her in for coffee and it’s extremely romantic (“Coffee?” “You mean sex.” “…Yeah, I mean sex. If you like me enough.” “I like you enough.”). Connor isn’t there – small mercies, she likes Connor just fine but that would be just a little _too_ weird if he was waiting for them – rather, he’s at New Jericho, kicked out of the house by Hank earlier that day.

There’s no coffee. They end up on the couch. She’s never really been much of a fan of kissing – it’s boring, sloppy, and there’s usually too much tongue and the danger of bad breath. Hank’s mouth is warm and wet, but not slobbery and not too heavy with tongue. His mouth tastes like their meal, which is fine, hers probably tastes the same, and while it’s not the most amazing kiss she’s ever had, it’s… decent. Slow and generous. The longer it goes on the more she enjoys it. The sensation of his facial hair is strange – bristly, scratching and burning at her face. That’s one benefit to her all-too-brief relationships with women in the past; she didn’t have to wake up the next morning with beard rashes, which she’ll definitely get if she and Hank keep going. She’s straddling him on the sofa; his hand is up her shirt though he’d seemed embarrassed when she’d tried to return the favour, and she’s starting to ache in all the right places.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, though, she starts to doubt this will get any further than an awkward make-out session. She might be out of practice but she does remember what a man’s arousal feels like against her hip, and Hank is definitely not hard.

“Hank,” Shapiro murmurs against his mouth, pulling back just a little. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do anything tonight.”

Hank pulls back as well, blinking at her with half-dazed eyes. He’s frowning – embarrassed? – and clears his throat, his hand squeezing on her thigh. “Trust me,” he says, sounding hoarse. “I do. It’s just, uh – aw, geeze. I’m sorry. I’m not young anymore, and…”

And he’s essentially a functioning alcoholic, which can cause erectile dysfunction; she knows. She scorned alcoholism barely a month ago; considered it weak, cowardly, pathetic. But Christ, was the way _she_ lived really any better?

She kisses him softly. “I get it,” she says. “No pressure. I’m game if you’re game.”

He kisses her back. “I’m game.”

* * *

_23:09_

It’s a disaster.

It takes Hank way too long to get hard. When he does and they’ve finally made it to the bedroom, he fumbles too long with the condom packet to tear it open so Shapiro takes it out of his hand and does it herself, rolling it down his length. He realises way too late that he didn’t warn her he’s uncircumcised – is that even something she’d care about? Obviously not, she didn’t even blink twice – but he still asks, “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“Hank,” she says, straddling him as he grips her hips, “I’m sorry, I just don’t think we’re going to work out.”

He laughs.

Shapiro is strong and fierce over him and everything Hank thought she’d be as she holds his length steady to take him, but it’s rough and she hisses at the uneasy slide. It’s not that he’s a ridiculous size or she’s tight, it’s because she’s barely wet.

“You know, it’s okay if you don’t want to do anything tonight,” Hank jokes, already inside her.

Shapiro laughs and apologises; things just don’t work like they used to when they were younger. They try again with extra lubricant and that’s a bit better, and things go okay except that whatever he’s doing to her clit really isn’t doing it for her because she definitely doesn’t come and doesn’t even pretend to. Good on her. Not enough women are honest about that, in Hank’s opinion; it was a real shock to him halfway through his marriage when he found out Elizabeth only had three real orgasms with him their entire relationship, and two of them she gave to herself, talk about a blow to his pride. When he comes, far too soon, Shapiro is leaning over him to adjust the angle (things are pinching) and he whacks his forehead against hers.

“Jesus, I am so fucking sorry,” Hank says afterwards.

Shapiro snorts, standing close to him so that they’re both under the hot stream of the shower.

He’d left his shirt on during what he thinks is probably the worst sexual encounter he’s had since the night he lost his virginity. It’s off now – no point in hiding his scars and weight from her after _that_. He’s still embarrassed – maybe more about the weight than he is about his performance – but Shapiro doesn’t seem to mind. Her hand traces the tattoo down his chest curiously. Her own body is marked with scars – bullet grazes, knife wounds, it comes with the field they’re in – but she’s not inked, which surprises him.

“When Cassie was alive,” Shapiro finally says, and that’s a surprise as well, that she’s talking about her daughter, he honestly hadn’t thought it was something she’d want to bring up to him, not so soon, “I told her she could get as many piercings as she wanted when she turned thirteen, but that I’d disown her if she ever came home inked. I was joking, of course. Mostly. So she used to tease me. She’d say... when she turned eighteen, she’d get a tramp stamp, but a classy one.” Shapiro smiles; it’s a sad expression. “I told her there was no such thing as a classy tramp stamp.”

“Well, fuck, I’d better not turn around,” Hank jokes gently.

Shapiro huffs a small laugh.

“Not a fan of tattoos?” he asks.

“Not for myself,” she says. “I’m... hmm. Not particularly religious, but voluntary tattooing is forbidden under Judaism. Call it a cultural hang-up.” Her hand is tracing the pattern on Hank’s chest as the water streams down around them. “I like yours, though.”

“I got this one when I was in my twenties. Thought it was edgy.”

Her hand trails to the one on his shoulder. “And this one?”

It’s a child’s drawing – a line-drawn boat in the hand of a six-year-old boy, two stick figures in it, one smaller than the other. Hank’s throat tightens. “It was a… drawing my son did. I took him fishing during the summer. After… after Cole died…”

He means to tell her about the fishing trip – about how Hank had caught a fish and Cole caught a tiny little guppy that they had to throw back, but that his son looked at him with the stars in his eyes and said that he wanted to be _just like you when I grow up, daddy_. He means to tell her about how after Cole died, months later, he’d gotten hammered and finally went through Cole’s room, and found the drawing in the bedside table drawers. How he’d wept and hugged it to his chest, and took it the next day to a tattoo parlour and asked for the boat to be inked into his arm. But he can’t go on. It seems stupid to wipe his face of tears when they’re both in the shower and water is pouring down around them anyway, but he does.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

Shapiro shakes her head. “No, it’s okay,” she murmurs. “Jesus Christ, _I’ve_ cried more in the past month than I have in ten goddamn years.” She smiles sadly. “She really brought it out of me, you know? North. Without her...”

Hank’s hands find her waist, holding her close. “Yeah. I know.”

They don’t kiss and they don’t talk. They just hold each other under the stream of the shower and let the silence speak for itself.

* * *

_18 JUNE 2039, 07:12_

He’d invited Shapiro to stay the night, so she did. It was – strange, sharing a bed with another person. She didn’t think she’d enjoy the sensation of a man’s arms around her or the scent of his sheets, the awkwardness that comes with two people who don’t know each other’s bodies well entwining after a very poor attempt at sex. But it was comfortable, kind of sweet; he’d made an effort, which is more than she can say for most of her previous loves, men and women included.

She wakes up at 6:30am, an hour later than she usually does. There’s a morning erection poking against her – _oh,_ now _you’re hard_ – but he doesn’t rouse so she sheds the shirt he’d given her and dresses in her running gear, which she’d packed and brought with her in the event she’d stay the night. She feels –

She’s not sure how she feels. She’s been _not sure_ of her feelings a lot lately, since the night of the raids, since she’d held Cudmore’s life in her hands. Like she’s been floating, lost and unanchored, secured only by North’s presence.

It’s not fear, exactly, but it’s something like it; the uncertainty that comes with having a series of passageways opening before her, passageways that had always there but unnoticed because she’d chosen to open her eyes to look instead of crawling down the hole she’d been digging for herself that would eventually become her grave.

Hank could be one of those passageways. Perhaps a detour. The pleasant (if incomplete) ache from last night shortens her morning jog by half the time she usually goes for; she goes back to his house after only forty minutes, her forehead damp with sweat. Hank is awake by the time she’s back, in a shirt and pants and fixing some coffee for the both of them.

“Geeze, I know I wasn’t exactly up to scratch last night but I didn’t think it was bad enough for you to literally run away the morning after,” Hank greets when she steps into the kitchen.

Shapiro laughs. She leans forward – if he could deal with her ungroomed, unshaven areas then he can deal with her smelling of sweat. Kisses him. It’s all right. Nice, even. He kisses back, undemanding and unhurried, and definitely not caring that she smells like sweat. Her heartrate has jumped to 81BPM, which is ridiculous; her resting heartrate should be much lower and steadier after a run. Is she nervous? She likes Hank but she’s not sure she likes him enough for her heart to race.

She does like him enough to pull back and say, “I can’t stay long this morning, but brunch, Sunday after next? I have some business to take care of in Chicago but I’ll be back that weekend to start my new role. We can take –”

Shapiro stops herself; she’d almost said _the kids_ and that’s a can of worms she doesn’t want to open up about herself right now.

“– well, I promised North I’d relax a bit,” she continues. “Found a human-android fusion café that looks half decent and I’m going to make her try carbonated Thirium.”

“Carbonated Thirium?” Hank sounds disgusted. “That’s a thing now?”

“It’s not like androids can taste,” Shapiro reasons. “They have to make the drinks interesting somehow.”

“She’s not going to like it,” Hank warns.

“Five bucks says she will.”

“Pathetic. I’ll take those odds.”

Shapiro looks forward to being five dollars richer next weekend. “Deal. I’m sure she won’t mind if you and Connor join us.”

“It’s not really a date if North and Connor and any of their friends come along, you know that, right?”

Shapiro laughs. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s _my_ line. Seriously, I am sorry about last night.”

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

He squints at her.

“...I liked the shower afterwards,” she corrects. “It’s fine, Hank. We’re both adults here. We just need a bit of practice.”

He kisses her again. She kisses back. Still nice. Maybe a little better this time.

“Hank,” Shapiro says quietly when they part.

“Yeah?”

She strums her fingers on the counter. “I like you,” she says, bluntly. Perhaps there’s a more delicate way of expressing feelings; if there is, she doesn’t care for it, because she’s too old, too jaded, to play a song and dance around something good when she sees it. He’s a decent man. Not half-bad looking, if you look past the beard and the long hair. They do have similar interests and talents, career-wise; that’s always a good thing. They’re a similar age. He makes her laugh. “I think you like me too. I don’t know if this is going anywhere, but either way, it’s only fair you know that I have blood on my hands.”

She grimaces.

“…A lot of blood. I didn’t think it would matter because I wouldn’t be around to face those consequences, but...”

But an angry android stormed her way into Shapiro’s heart and gave her a reason to live, so here she is.

Hank waits for her to keep talking.

“What I’m trying to say is... I don’t regret anything. Maybe the law will catch up to me one day, maybe it won’t. Either way, I’m at peace with what I did. But I don’t expect you to be all right with it, so if you’re not –”

He reaches across to still her hand on the counter; she lets him take it. “Anne.”

She stops talking.

Hank sighs. “When Cole died – I didn’t have anyone to blame. Maybe the android who couldn’t save his life, maybe the human surgeon who was too high to operate. The truck driver died on impact. Can’t fight the weather. I could only blame myself, so I killed myself a little bit every day until I had a reason not to. I lost Cole to a tragic fucking accident. But – Christ. If I’d lost him the way you lost Cassie... if someone had taken him from me like that...” Hank shakes his head. “You and I have been in this field long enough to know that sometimes, the law isn’t enough. You did what you had to do.”

_Do what you have to do._

“...Yeah,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if this is going anywhere either,” Hank confesses. “Honestly, I don’t know what you see in me, but, uh. I know a good thing when I see it.” He shrugs. “I’m game if you’re game.”

Hell. She’s got nothing to lose. Except maybe North’s respect. _Ha._ She leans forward again; his hands find her waist. “I’m game.”

“Connor’s going to be unbearable now, you know.”

“Oh,” she laughs, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essie is a reference to **Fantismal's** original character in her fic [Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874638/chapters/36986235), Part 2 of the _Perceptions_ series which you should all definitely read. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this small fluff piece! Honestly, you guys indulging my original character is just so fucking awesome, I cannot believe how nice y'all are to me. <3 <3 
> 
> NOW ON TO THE ANGST WITH THE CONNOR SEQUEL!

**Author's Note:**

> Shapiro: I'm not looking for anything  
> [two days later]  
> Shapiro: YO ANDERSON U WANNA FRACK
> 
> I promised the hookup! Just a bit of levity ~~before the angst~~. Also a reward for my readers who got through the angst of the first story. I LOVE YOU ALL, THANK YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS FOR YOU  <3
> 
> Don't forget to come and join me at the **Detroit: New ERA** Discord: https://discord.gg/8hQbYM5. I have a secret North Appreciation Society channel where we give Anne affectionate hell for her shitty phone and horrible texting and bad taste in angry water. Also feat. Rude Connor.


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